Turning four

Punk has a whole list of things in her world that will change when she turns four--which is today, by the way.
She will no longer require a booster seat to eat her meals.
She will get a booster car seat.
She will be a big girl.
I hate to break it to her, but my daughter is a midget Not literally, but figuratively. She's small. Just over thirty pounds and still wearing some 18 month old clothes.
She can't reach the light switches in our house.
She has to stand on a booster to reach the faucets.
Even with the booster, at the movies, she normally can't see, requiring a parental lap and some juggling for her view to be unobstructed.
She's just petite.
I love my midget girl.
She makes me laugh like you wouldn't believe.
My daughter is a force of nature, and she's kicking butt and taking names without mercy.
She is a daredevil, hell on wheels in pink, a tiny tornado that has the men in our lives succumbing to her cute grin and wily ways.
My daughter is woman in training and HERE HER ROAR!
And I'm laughing all the way behind her, arms outstretched to catch her if she falls.
It hardly seems possible that, four years ago, I didn't know this person as anything but a demanding parasite who had a time share of my uterus.
I have miserable pregnancies, vomiting, bleeding unable to gain weight.
But Punk's was especially trying with 5 months straight of migraines that no pain killer could alleviate.
I know now why I had those headaches. It was to toughen me up to my tiny terrorist. It was my prenatal baby boot camp.
And, looking back, I wouldn't change a thing, because it brought me her.
My baby girl turns four today. Time is racing by and I know I'm forgetting to do some important parent to a girl things that I'll surely regret later.
But one thing is always true.
My daughter is the best daughter I could have ever dreamed of.
And, for that, I am humbly grateful.
Happy birthday, Punk. Know that there is love, and it pales in comparison to how I feel about you. May you rock four like you've done every other year in your short life--with style, flare, a few well placed curse words (oops!) and a laugh that rings through the air like handfuls of joy.
And thank you for allowing me to share in your life.
I love you, midget girl.

Memories

Today, I've been caught off guard by a sudden onslaught of deja vou moments where my children allow me to relive my own childhood holidays.
It's surreal to suddenly be standing there, and to feel like I'm five years old again, waiting for Christmas morning.
(Not that it's hard to see myself at about five--Punk is a clone of me after all.)
But I could see my Daddy, bushy mustache and white t-shirt, coffee in hand, watching me bang on a baby grand piano toy.
Or my mom, hovering just like I do now, over my brother and I as we tore through wrapping and ooh'd and ahh'd.
I can see my grandparents, grandpa on the floor playing, granny always nearby for a hug or a spare hand.
And I know my babies are having these same experiences, but with slightly different players.
The Man has the coffee in hand, no mustache or white shirt, gearing up to do battle with all batteries and fastenings those damnable manufacturers use to tie toys into boxes.
My mom is hovering, but as a grandma, ready with hugs and laughter.
There is another grandma and grandpa, on the floor and ready to play.
And there is me. Making it happen. Sitting back and watching it all unfold and knowing I did good by the smiles on little faces.
It's disconcerting the moment you realized these same scenes are played out time and again, mirroring my own childhood in such a way that, one day, the heathens will have that moment of deja vou and know they are the continuation of a holiday tradition they had no idea was being made.
And, that, despite everything, is a joy I can truly feel, knowing I"m just the temporary keeper of a legacy that was started long ago.
Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Blessed Be.

I'm Scrooge, yes, I am!

Have I mentioned I hate this time of year?
From the second week of October until New Year's has passed, I'm Ebineazer Scrooge, baby.
October is the reminder of my personal loss and my family's loss.
November and Thanksgiving are just bigger reminder's of a loss that created a gaping void in me and my family.
December should be for recovery, but instead is about birthdays and holiday's and work trying to get it all done.
I'm bah hubbugging the whole damned thing.
Add to that a dear friend getting diagnosed with cancer, and I'm just ready to be done with it already.
While she has a great, winning (and not in the freaky Charlie Sheen way) attitude, I'm stuck yelling at the skies and asking why? Why do we have to hurt? Why do we have to feel loss? Why do good people get dealt screwed up cards?
Picture me stomping my feet, shaking my fist at the sky, and yelling at the big old nothing and you've pretty much got it down pat.
The high points are my heathens, who look forward to this time of year with unbridled joy and excitment.
They listed all the fun things about winter during our car ride to school.
They look forward to warm mittens and cups of hot cocoa and snow ball fights.
They believe that Santa will bring them what they really want this year.
Me? Not so much. What I want, Santa can't fit in a stocking.
I want world peace.
I want money not to matter anymore.
I want people to smile more and bitch less.
I want cancer exterminated.
I want my lost baby.
I want my daddy back.
I want my joy back.
All big orders for one single fat man in a red suit.
So while I plaster a smile on my face and try to pretend to be happy for the heathens, inside, I'm just counting the days until January 2nd.
And muttering Bah Humbug under my breath at every turn.

Wounds

Some wounds just won't heal.
No matter how much time has passed, no matter how different you are now, some wounds stay raw and painful.
My miscarriage is one such wound.
And every year, on this day, it bleeds anew.
Nine years. It doesn't feel like nine years. It feels like just an instant ago, and yet I know exactly how many minutes have passed.
Four million, seven hundred and thirty three thousand, two hundred and eighty minutes.
And I've felt every one of them.
In every joy, it's a shadow. With every pain, its another stone weighing me down. Every smile harbors a hint of sadness.
Because in my heart, there are always four.
Four faces around my table.
Four voices in my ear.
Four babies in my heart.
But that many minutes, that many breaths, I have learned a few things.
I used to think my first question to the Divine when I finally stopped would be, "Why?"
Now I know that answer. Because I wasn't ready. Because it wasn't time. Because it would have been too much.
The answer sucks, but I get it. Looking back, I know its true.
So my new question would be, "Where?"
As in "Where is my child?"
I've always believed we get the child we're meant to have when we're meant to have it. I know I'm meant to have Bug, Boo, and Punk right now. I know, despite ho weak I feel, I'm strong enough to meet Bug's needs, to hold Boo tight when he doesn't know he needs it, to dance with my daughter.
I know I'm strong enough, even when I doubt.
But when I finally keel over, the first face I want to see will be that child's. The first person I'll be reaching for will be that baby.
And God's help anyone who gets in my way.
A lifetime of pain, of a wound that wont' heal, and I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to call that shot in the afterlife.
October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month.
Remember those mom's (and dad's) who struggle with their loss every day.
Because while my arms are certainly not empty, there is always space for one more.

How time flies, when you're . . .

Institutionalized.

In marriage.

Sixteen years ago today, I was an innocent, unmarried, virginal nineteen year old.
I was fairly sweet (My true nature was still in its infancy. Trust me, I'm not even in the neighborhood of sweet now.) and eager to please.

And I hadn't mastered the word "no" as a weapon yet.

It was the night before our wedding, and, while I didn't know what I was doing, I knew I had promised The Man my hand (and all the girly parts attached) the next day.

And when I make a promise, I don't' break it.

I don't remember saying I do, and if it wasn't on video, I might deny that it ever happened. But it is, and I did, so here we are, sixteen years, four pregnancies, three heathens later.

Married . . . with children.

Oiy vey!

Over the years (almost half of my life, mind you" I've had ample opportunity to wax philosophic on my I pledged my troth to The Man.

And, while I still haven't come up with any really good logical explanation for what obviously was a moment of sheer insanity, I have come to the realization bout a lot of little things that make me stay here and not find a hot cabana boy in Mexico.

1. He loves me. I mean, who doesn't? I am loveable epitomized. There's is nothing about me that doesn't want to make you call me snooky and to declare your undying affection for my general person.

2. He's a great dad. Who occasionally hits his kid's head with the car door, can't pick out girl clothes to save his life, and gets routinely outsmarted by our seven year old. But he's a great play toy for the kids, so I keep him around.

3. He does housework and yard work. There is not a damned thing more to say about this except . . .he also washes dishes. (Wipe the drool, ladies. Even if it weren't for the other stuff, I know I good thing when I've got it and I won't be letting my housekeeper go!)

4. He tries to stand up to me. And I have to applaud the attempted use of his gonads (taken off their resting place on the back of the toilet) in the attempt to stop one of my rampages.

5. He has his own built in heater. Cold night, warm husband, cold feet on back? Oh yeah, baby!

6. When I just can't, he does. When I have fought so hard that I can't take another step, he finishes the fight. When my heart is shattered and I can't find all the pieces, he does and glues them back together. (Even if there's always a hole or two left open in the end, but that's because those pieces when to the stars with the people I love). Even though I am the obviously strong one, when I am weak, he holds me up.

7. He just gets me. Despite the fact that he doesn't understand me ninety percent of the time, he gets me, and he's okay with that. When I'm on a tirade, he gets me. When I'm upset, he gets me. And he gets me to laugh so hard no amount of Keigel's help. And that's pretty important after sixteen years.

So after that much time, I still don't have a clue why I said yes except for one little thought. At the time, something in him needed something in me and vice versa. When I said yes initially, it was out of need. When I say yes each day, right before I walk through the front door to my screaming kids and frazzled husband, I say yes again out of want.

Gods help me, I want this life. I chose this life, admittedly without knowing what our lives would be. I choose to stay married and not bury his body in the pre-dug hole in our back yard.

I chose.

And while we don't make sense to anyone else in the world, we make a strange kind of sense to each other, which is all that matters.

So here's a happy anniversary to me (and The Man, if I must--although I still don't know what he has to do with it.) because we've not only survived, we've thrived. we've made a life out of a hope and a dream.

We've made ourselves out of nothing out of half understood promises made when we didn't have enough sense to know what we'd just pledged.

And we still have another fifty years to go.

Hopefully, by that time, I'll be a old biddy like Wheezer and The Man will be holding my purse in the mall.

A girl's gotta dream!

Loving a Buggy Boy

Seven years ago, my oldest boy took his first breaths of life.
At the same time, I took my first breath in a new world.
I became his Mommy.
And I had no idea what I was getting in to.
As a general rule, I am not a kid friendly person. To me, they are just strange, mini adults and should be treated as such.
I went into my new role with the mentality.
Only to be biddy slapped senseless.
And, while I still am not kid friendly, I am more tolerant of these mini humans that now fill my world.
When I was handed my son pink and new and as confused as I was by this strange new world, I had done my research.
I knew when he should be hitting milestones, how often to feed, how to feed--I knew my shit.
Too bad I didn't know his.
Bug turned my world on its axis, and it now orbits around three little worlds that make both more and less sense with each new day.
I still do my research, but two boys --one with special needs-- and a very opinionated little girl later, it's not written as firmly in stone.
Maybe quicksand.
That I'm standing in.
Maybe drowning.
The point is I'm flexible.
I'm better able to roll with the punches, to handle a gut shot with a smile on my face.
I'm more equipped to stare down the devil himself in protection of my babies.
I remember looking at my first born and wondering how I could already know I would die for my child, I would bleed, I would cut out pieces of myself to keep him whole.
And that was all before I really knew him.
Now there is no limit to what I will do for my child. For my children.
Being a mother is an empowering thing, a primal scream trapped in my chest that fills me with the strength of a raging grizzly and the drive to protect, to save, to cling to.
And it's a whimper trapped in my throat each year, when they inch ever closer to adulthood, to standing on their own two feet, to not needing my hand to hold.
It is awe inspiring and humbling in a way non parents cannot fathom.
And it's my birthday gift from my son.
And, every year, when the clock strikes the moment of his birth, I remember that gift, and how unprepared I was for its enormity.
And how unworthy I still am.
And I whisper a thank you, low enough, just for his ears alone.
I just hope one day he understands how precious a gift he gave me and how little I have to give in return.
I would give everything I am, and still, it would never be enough.
Happy birthday, DoodleBug. I hope you rock seven years old, and I hope you know how very much you are loved.
M.

Speech

I've recently come to the conclusion sometimes it's just not worth the effort to speak.
People don't really listen, so busy with their own agendas that they cannot fathom mine.
People don't really care, so full of their own lives that they cannot understand mine.
So I've just decided, for now, speech is overrated.
Which is an odd conclusion for me to come to, considering my love of words, both written and spoken.
But right now, the only company I seek is that of my heathens and of myself.
I'll admit, I probably am a little depressed.
So the hell what?
I'm allowed my five minutes to pout when the world drops big steaming piles of shat on my head.
I'm allowed to tuck my head in the sand and refused to deal anymore.
Because I never stay down long, because I can't, because it's not who I am to not come up swinging.
But for now, it feels pretty damned good.
I'll deal with what needs me, with what I know will feed my soul, and tell everyone else where exactly they can go.
Because the rest of my world is just a big, blood sucking leech, draining me of any will to do anything constructive.
So here's my big screw you world. If you're not in my little sphere of people who not only take but give, you can go straight to hell, do not pass go, and you might as well kiss my arse along the way.
Those are my words to the world.
Enjoy.

Remiss

I have been remiss in my writing.
I know this.
But between the demands of family, return to school, work, and household remodel, I don't have five minutes to breathe, let alone to gather my thoughts and put fingers to keyboard.
Something had to give, and my writing was it.
Which is sad, because I take a great pleasure in putting my ideas down, in formatting my thoughts into something that takes the chaos of my mind and makes it seem linear and logical.
But,as a wife, a mother, a woman, I have to put myself last in life.
If I don't, things simply won't get done.
My children won't have their school supplies or clean clothes.
My cars won't have gas in them.
Appointments won't be made.
Groceries won't be bought.
The functional portion of my world would simple cease to function.
Not that The Man wouldn't try to fill in the gaps. He would. But he possesses an entirely different skills set, and stepping into my high heels would result in a topple of epic proportions.
We each have our strengths, and after almost sixteen years of marriage, we have settled into a comfortable coexistence where he does his thing, I do mine, and our lives move at a decent pace in a semi straight line.
He handles the physical part of our lives, the yard work, the remodel, the housework, the grunt work that I hate to do. He is the muscle and sweat of this marriage.
I deal with the finances, the bills, the schedule, the appointments, the schools, the doctors, the more disciplined and planned portion of our lives.
Between the two of us, there's very little we can't accomplish.
Well, except for winning an argument with Punk. That has us both bested.
So I have been remiss in taking time for myself.
Tonight, I took our Giant Schnauzer, Harvey Wallbanger, and we walked two miles without having to speak to another living soul. It was peaceful and cerebral and once of those moments where I had nothing to do but simply be.
And when we finished our trek, walking back up to the house with my children standing outside yelling "Go, Mommy!" it was a reward for my remiss behavior.
That moment was a reminder of my I have been MIA. Because sometimes, there are things in life far more important than a quiet walk or thoughtful words.

Things I want my children to remember

If I die tomorrow, I have a list of things I want my children to remember.
It's one of those running lists in my head that I add to ask something strikes me as important.
Some of the things may seem odd, but, hey, that's just the way I float. K?

I don't care if you get into wreck that you wear clean underwear. You'll crap your pants anyway, so save yourself the embarrassment--just drive carefully.

When you think you love someone enough to lose your virginity to them, realize you don't love them enough if you can't picture me handing out condoms and saying, "Have fun, kids!"

When you decide it's time to get your own place, keep in mind that four hours away will not stop me from visiting. Frequently So save me the gas money, which I could spend on something nice for you, like food, and move within a few miles of home.

When you decide to drink something alcoholic, remember that there will be a hangover the next morning. Remember that there will be me, standing over you with a hangover the next morning. Just something to think about.

Remember that some people suck ho ho's. They are cruel. Even when you love them, they are cruel, and, when they break your heart, and someone undeserving of it will, I will be there, plotting to kick their ass or planning a drive by. Mama just rolls that way.

Know that I love you like crazy cakes. Some days, I just love you plain crazy. Like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. That's me about you.

Always know that I'm proud of you, even when you fall flat on your face, because I know you'll get up and finish what you started. And I'll have band aids and kisses for boo boo's, even when it embarrasses the hell out of you.

And remember I said no. I say no in the back of your mind when you are considering making a bad choice. I scream it when you're about to do something amazingly stupid. I whisper it when you ask yourself if you love them enough. I say no.

Only a handful of times will I say yes. When it's the one. When you hold up your baby with doubt in your eyes, needing reassurance, I will say yes so softly your ears won't hear, but your heart will. And when I see the fear and sadness in your eyes, I say yes, I will be waiting, wherever, whenever, for you. Always for you. Simply yes.

Reflections

As the school year draws to a close and my kindergartener becomes a first grader, while my preschooler looks forwrad to kindergarten, I have a moment to reflect.
(I'm hiding in the bathroom so I can have five minutes of peace and quiet. If you count peace and quiet as my children banging on the door and asking what I'm doing in here.)
It's been a good year, a bumpy year, a year of highs and lows and lessons learned that I thought you might like to share with me.

1. Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The Squeakwell is EVIL. Alvin's no gonads voice will insinuate itself into your child's head and make him give an unsuspecting girl a wedgie. And then tell his teacher Alvin told him to do it.

2. Preschool girls are way too advanced and pre pubescent boy crazy for me to allow my child to attend that school any longer. Yes, I know Boo is hot, but he's five and has medical school in his future, you shameless hussy.

3. Boys on sports teams will try anything to stop a runner from reaching base, including but not limited to: pushing, tripping, and blocking.

4. Said boys on sports teams will trash talk any foe who comes near them.

5. Teachers who love your child will delight in sharing his embarrassing moments with other teachers, including the next years teacher and telling them "Look what you'll have in your class next year."

6. Kindergarteners can get detention. At least twelve times in the school year. Maybe more, but twelve was our capstone. Just one detention shy of a baker's dozen. And you will be embarrassed each time you have to send back the signed form.

These are just a few of my academic lessons this year, taught to me by my children, who have enjoyed schooling me more than I would like to admit.

I'm upping my meds in prepation for next year.

Mamas

I have a pretty good mama.
She's a pain in my tail some days, (smooch!) but I know if I needed something, she would drop everything to get it done.
I know she loves me and my kids with a passion that defies all logic. I'm pretty sure she's kind of fond of The Man, too.
She's one of those moms, not June Cleaver, not Roseanne, but a meet in the middle, real mom who made sure we always had what we needed and a good portion of what we wanted.
She's a pretty good role model for motherhood.
I, on the other hand, fall into the Roseanne spectrum.
Despite my good upbrining, I'm loud and crass and sarcastic.
I threaten to hang my kids out of the window by their toes in a move reminiscent of Michael Jackson and Blanket.
According to my children, I work their fingers to the bone and never let them rest or play.
I make them eat their veggies because I want them to get sick.
I make them go to bed at night because I don't want them to be happy.
I dress them warmly because I'm cold.
Basically motherhood is all about me.
But anyone who knows me knows there is no surprise there.
I am no Mother Theresa.
I do have wire coat hangers, although I have never had the opportunity to chase my children around the house shrieking that fact.
As Mother's Day approaches, I find myself reflecting on mothering styles.
There is the selfless, self sacrificing mother. I personally think her kids will never leave the nest and she'll be supporting them until she's dead and buried, but that's just me.
There's the militant mom. Watch out for a child with access to an arsenal.
There's the fluffy, sweet mom. Let's just say road kill.
And then there's mom's like me. Kind of a mix. I'm Nurse Cratchette when they are sick, determined to will them better (Or scare them well, either way it works). I'm a cheerleader (who wants to steroid test and see birth certificates for the opposing team! No six year old is that good at baseball AND that big, damn it!) And I'm the mama whose pushing her kids out of the nest with trembling hands and thre realization that once they are out, they won't come back.
Am I a great mom? Nope. I freely admit that.
And I a good mama? Some days. Not on the three days weekend alone with my kids.
Am I a devoted mom? Hell yes.
Am I a loving mom? Gods yes.
Amd I a mom? With every fiber of my being, yes.
Happy mother days to all moms, mine included, whose styles might be different, whose kids may be shopping around for a nursing home, but whose hearts are full of love and laughter.

The power of words

I love words--written words, spoken words, words are the love of my life.
I revel in the way they feel on my tongue, the way they express my thoughts and feelings, the way people react to them.
I even love the word . . .word. To your mother.
I don't think about my words too carefully before they fall out of my mouth, either landing with a splat at my feet or soaring to the heavens on a particularly brilliant day. And, yes, I do have those days.
For example, comparing an epiphany to a flaming orgasm last week had my coworkers busting their proverbial guts in laughter.
(I'm waiting on the sexual harassment complaint to arrive later this week, BTW.)
Or discussing with my brother and sister in law that I enjoy low fat salami in front of my mother.
(She was so proud of that college education at that moment.)
Anyhow . . .
I find myself lately facing a quandary. While I love words, I find that when thinking about writing them, the words spiraling my in mind become log jammed somewhere between my mind, my mouth, and my fingers and nothing spews forth.
My Old Faithful has become an Old Fizzle.
And while I realized that, in my old age, I might be good for fewer and fewer literary epiphanies, I didn't think it would happen in my thirties.
So my love affair with words is becoming distinctly one sided as, for the moment, I find that they don't love me back.
I am hoping to jump start our relationship once more, to renew it over a weekend of faithful contact, of devoted attention, of loving caresses.
I'm hoping to remind my words what they'll be missing if they stray.
And what is that exactly?
A woman who loves them passionately, blindly.
A woman whose verbal filters are mostly switched off and who will say almost anything without hesitation and without liquid libations assistance.
A woman who, when she dies, hope the afterlife is a enormous library with comfy reading chairs and hot tea at all times.
I am a word slut.
Come and take me baby!

Changes

The Man started a new job this week.
That new job has him home nights, but every other weekend I'm a single parent.
So we're adjusting.
Sort of.
Okay, badly.
Don't get me wrong. I can handle my kids. But since I'm not the fun parent--and my boys will tell you that in a minute--we're all having to adjust to a new way of life.
My children love to be outside. I hate it. Between the sunburn and the dust allergy, I'm miserable.
But I did it yesterday. Until I broke The Man's tractor and decided I was done with Green Acres.
I love quiet afternoons that include naps or at least curling up with a book.
None of that happening here.
I like Wii work outs in solitude.
My audience just wouldn't leave, but they were great cheerleaders.
I love kid kisses, but not the fights and "he's touching me" or "he looked at my apple" that I've been dealing with. (Punk threw an apple at Bug's head for daring just such an offense. Girl has an arm on her!)
I like freshly folded laundry and toys in their bins and chaos at a minimum.
I very rarely get what I like.
And, yes, it is all about me in this house. I like it that way.
So I made a deal. You want something, you're gonna do what I want, with a good attitude.
And it seems to be working.
Okay, it's akin to bribery, but I'm a desperate woman hovering over a fresh made batch of white chocolate macadamia nut cookies and I'm about to jump, damn it.
There are times when its all about survival, baby.
While I am most definitely not a shy, retiring wall flower, I talk to people all day, every day. Most not by choice.
Don't get me wrong. I adore my friends and family and I love a good chat, but on weekends, I could care less if I say two words to anyone.
Weekends are my time to stoop an decompress and regroup before I climb on a building and start shooting people.
Really. If you know me at all, you know how easily that could happen.
But every other weekend I have to step up, parent solo, and pray to the gods that The Man's day ends quickly.
My heathens and I all have our faces pressed to the glass waiting on him.
Because, while my idea of fun is not running outside barefoot, it is the quiet that comes when he takes the heathens outside to run amok and I can close the door and finally breathe.
Sometimes, I even unlock the door and let them come back in.
Sometimes.

Chasing the wind

Growing up, I was always told I could be anything I wanted to be.
And I believed it.
I still do.
I still believe it so much I tell my heathens that they can be the president or a doctor or whatever, they just have to find their star and reach for it.
A child needs that damned star, after all.
But, as an adult, while I still know I could be most things I want to be, some things will continue to elude me. I'm pretty sure I'll never be a fashion model or a size two. NASA isn't going to come calling for a new idea on the space shuttles. And I'm probably never going to win a Nobel Prize.
I know now that there is still a star out for me. It's patiently waiting for me. And I know that, while reaching for that star, I got distracted by some lovely leaves blowing in the wind and decided to chase them instead.
Dreams change. I use to dream of publishing books, being rich, and having it all.
Now I dream of happy, healthy kids, writing for pleasure, and having enough.
While I once dreamed of overwhelming happiness, I now find myself happy with being content. Because I know who I am, and she's not the girl I once was, but she's one tough mama whose mostly got her priorities straight.
The other dreams are there, but they know they simply can't shine as bright as my new dreams.
My new dreams are not for myself, but for my babies. My new dreams involve making sure they have what they need and some of what they want. That they know they were wanted, loved, and the best gifts with purchase I could have ever asked or.
I still dream big. And I'm still reaching. But I'm reaching with my arms full of my babies, trying to get them just a few inches closer to their stars.
I love my leaves, so bright and beautiful. And I wouldn't give up chasing them for all the stars in the sky.

Love letter to my five year old on the anniversary of his birth

I am in love with a blue eyed boy.
And The Man knows about it.
Even better, he's okay with it.
And he understands completely that I will toss his butt over in a heart beat for this boy.
My beautiful blue eyes Buddha baby.
Who is turning five tomorrow.
It is so hard to believe every birthday that my babies are aging, are growing, are becoming the people that will one day drive me to the nursing home and kick me to the curb.
Buddha is my sandwich child. Literally. He's the middle child, wedged between the baby girl and the oldest boy.
And he's very fond of sandwiches, so both analogies fit perfectly.
In fact, Boo loves any food as long as its given to him frequently.
This year I've taken to calling him a Hobbit due to his voracious appetite. He hits the floor hungry, and wants not only breakfast, but second breakfast, brunch, lunch, midday snack, late afternoon snack, dinner, after dinner snack, and we've caught him in the kitchen in the middle of the night on a bender.
If his toes sprout fur, I'll know I was given a changeling at birth.
Not that I'd give him back.
Once you're mine, you're mine. Just try to escape.
And Buddha B is definitely mine from the top of his fat little head to the toes that I'm anxiously observing.
He is the child who makes me laugh with silly dances and odd expressions.
He is the child I have to chase for a hug and a kiss.
He is 1/3 of my heart, walking outside of my body.
I chuckle at his raspy voice yelling, "Look what I can do!" as he flops on the floor in some bizarre pantamine.
I smile when, every night, far earlier than his siblings, he curls up and goes to sleep with the chickens.
And I curse that early to bed motto every morning when he follows it with early to rise.
He is a soother when his brother simply cannot cope and the protector when his sister might need one. He is a balm to my soul on the hard days.
He is not my most affectionate child and he doesn't routinely stun me with bizarre facts he's learned from Gods knows where, but he is the child who pacifies, who calms, who reminds us that there is joy in life and there is always something to laugh about.
He is perfect in his own way.
Boyishly sweet.
Impossibly bright.
Charming like Clark Gable at his finest.
And he's stopped running like Charlie Chaplin on crack.
He is the filling in my family's oreo cookie--my favorite part.
Happy birthday, Buddha my love. May your day be bright and brilliant, just like you.

Happiness is . . . .

Having your husband go off to work while you are still laying in bed.

Stretching out an putting your feet on the empty while watching a chick flick on TV.

The heathens waking up in their own time, happy and sleep smiling.

Breakfast with no battles.

A cup of hot vanilla laced coffee with froth.

Cold weather an a warm house.

Fuzzy slipper socks.

A curly headed girl that lets me brush her hair with no complaints.

A smiling dog that howls when The Man sings.

The sounds of bare piggies and friendly words filling the house.

Candles that smell like flowers.

A quiet start to A Sunday morning and the peace we find there before the craziness of Monday brings it all back around to reality.

When did I stop being a girl?

"You're not a girl! You're a mom!"
Those words, uttered by my heathen offspring, made me stop to wonder.
When did I stop being a girl?
I remember being a girl. I'm pretty sure I had the passport and knew the secret handshake.
So when did I turn in my papers and join the "Mom's Only" club? Which, I must admit, is universally detested by my offspring, just like brussell sprouts and broccoli.
I look at Punk and wonder, will she too pass from the Girl Club to the Mom Club?
And will I be able to see in her what I missed in myself?
That elusive moment when she ceases to be a girl and becomes a mom?
I'm convinced it was one of the countless forms I signed in the hospital.
Something that read:
"By hereby squeezing an infant the size a watermelon out of your previously intact nether regions or by laying sprawled on an operating table having your previously perfect bikini line irreparably marred, you do hereby acknowledge that you are no longer a girl, can never again be a girl. You accept that your boobs will sagged, your stretch marks will be a permanent road map to your pregnancies, and that the bags under your eyes will only take you to the nursery at 3am, not to any exotic locale.
Furthermore, you understand that your sex drive will drop to nothing, especially when its a choice between that and sleep. You will arrive everywhere rear first to insure your child does not fall out of the car. You will have conversations that involve never meeting anyone's eye because you will be constantly watching your child. You will also become the queen of interruptions as you yell at Little Billy or Betty to stop sticking something up their nose.
By signing this, you hereby sever all ties allegiances, and future dealings with the group known as girlhood.
Kiss your cooch, and your freedom, goodbye."
Or something like that.
So I'm no longer a girl by anyone definition. I'm just a mom, usually said with derision, irritation, whining, and a touch of disgust.

Spring

I can't wait for spring.
Don't get me wrong--I love winter. I love the cold and the snow and the smell of crisp, chilled air. I love hot tea and good books and snuggling down in a blanket. I love mounds of blankets in the bed and scaldingly hot showers to push the chill from your bones.
I love the feel of clean that winetr provides, of home, and hearth, and family.
But this year, for the first time, I feel the nudges of spring fever gripping me.
Since completeing the addition, I have wanted to plant flowers and watch new life spring from the soil at my behest.
I want the smell of roses and gardenias, the soft feel of lamb's ear, the crisp scent of cedar mulch.
I'm nesting, welcoming the new addition to our home like I would any lovely new being.
No, I'm not pregnant. I'm talking about the building addition.
I thill to see my crocuses peeking out, their sweet floral heads a welcome flash of color.
Not that I'm doing any of the planting. I will not ruin my manicure--are you absolutely daft?
Nope, The Man and the heathens are doing the work. I'm just frequenting home supplies stores and garden supplies, bringing home plants and pointing to their new homes.
But I know The Man wants them to bloom where they are planted as much as me.
Maybe that's it.
Maybe that's why I feel like rushing spring along this year.
Maybe I'm rededicating my inner hearth witch, reminding myself that, for now, I should bloom where I am planted.
Because right now, this is good.
Because, right now, this is right.
Right now, we are blooming.

Ache

Last week, I set foot into no woman's land.
At least its no woman's land if you've been spayed and no more babies are possible.
The baby section of a local store.
I was buying for a heathen's teacher, but I ofund myself yearning towards pacifiers, clothes, and toys my babies have long outgrown.
I immediately signed up for a big smacking reality check, but the ache was still there.
You know the one I'm talking about.
Phantom uterus pain.
That feeling deep within that hurts at the thought of no more tiny babies.
That portion of your that remembers the flutter of firts movements and the feel of elbows and knees later on, jabbing you, bruising you, reminding you of the life within your body, held safe, held as a promise of things to come.
I ached. I hated myself, but I ached.
Don't get me wrong, unless I win the lottery, my family is complete. While I have enough love to go around, I don't have enough money and room.
And while I am thrilled to be past diapers and diaper bags and spit up and baby proofing, I still miss that time of life.
I miss baby cries instead of howls of outrage.
I miss putting my heathens in a playpen or crib and knowing they would just stay put.
I miss baby breath and baby skin and baby sighs.
But I love my children's increasing independence and adventurous spirit.
I love having helpers with chores, though they aren't always willing.
I thrill at each new milestone, such as reading, because its a sure step into a new world for them.
But I acknowledge the ache, the unspoken yearning, and I doubt it will ever leave me.
The shop is closed, dusty, and barren, but the heart doesn't accept that.
The heart wants.
The heart yearns.
And so I ran out of that baby section before my heart could convince my head to do something unbelievably stupid.
But not fast enough to avoid that one sharp ache.
That, I still carry with me.

It's done!

Ten years ago, The Man and I bought our first home, owner finance, in need of some love.
Two years later, we moved out and began renting it.
Last October we put it on the market.
One week later we had a cash buyer.
One month later, we found out we couldn't sell the home until it went through probate because of once piece of paper that was done wrong.
Five months we have waited to close on this sale.
Five months our buyer has waited patiently for this home.
Five months, our first home has sat, empty, alone, waiting for new life to be breathed into it.
Five months we have fought and wept and worried over the sale of this house.
And today, it will be done. By 1:30 this afternoon, I will be down to one home, and a very nice man will be up one.
I will bid farewell to the house I sweated and slaved over, the house I lost my baby in.
My life will become infinately simpler today.
And I will breathe a sigh of relief that it is done.
Today, when I found out, I danced behind my desk in three inch heels and miraculously didn't break my neck. If I had, I would have held the pen in my teeth and still signed the closing papers somehow.
Today is a day of such profound financial relief I can't even describe it.
I've learned a very valuable lesson.
There are good people. There are people whose word in their bond. And goo dthings will truly come to you if you are kind to others.
It is a reminder that, after our last renter, I needed.
It is a reminder that, while there are many people out there without morals or concious or any selblemce of honesty in their souls, there are people, who like us, try to do what is best, what is right.
And that feels pretty damned good today.